


Break-In

by crabbynsfw



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, Cunnilingus, Other, Reader Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 07:54:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6230086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crabbynsfw/pseuds/crabbynsfw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s someone in your apartment. You didn’t invite him in, but he keeps coming back anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break-In

There is someone in your apartment.

You freeze, key half-turned in the lock as you listen to clattering and shuffling sounds, muffled slightly by your front door.

You’ve been gone for about a week, visiting family. Has someone been squatting in your house while you were gone?

What do you do? Call the police? There’s zero sign of a break-in – your lock is intact, none of your windows are broken. Are you just imagining the sounds? Are you hallucinating?

You have to find out. You need to know. You turn the key in the lock and push the door open gently.

There is a man in a red and black spandex (or perhaps leather?) costume sitting on your couch, in clear view of the door, with his feet propped up on your little coffee table.

“What the fuck,” you say.

The man holds up a box of Little Debbie snack cakes. There’s wrappers all over your couch.

“Hey, you got any more of these?” he asks.

“Who are you and why are you in my apartment?” you ask, ignoring his question.

“Uh,” he says, “I happened to see you heading out with your suitcase a week ago and I thought you were gonna be gone longer.” His mask is pulled up slightly and he’s talking with his mouth full of snack cake.

There’s a gun on your coffee table.

“There’s a gun on my coffee table,” you tell him.

“Haha, um.” Before he sounded like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar, but now his voice has taken a humorous edge. “No, there’s a _DTA Stealth Recon Scout A1_ on your coffee table.”

You stare at him blankly.

“Military-grade sniper rifle,” he clarifies.

You nod dumbly.

You stare at each other for a long time. He shoves the last piece of cake in his mouth and stands up, grabbing the rifle and the Hello Kitty duffel bag sitting on the floor. He hefts the bag over his shoulder and gives you a nod.

“Well, sorry about the mess. I’ll be going now. See you around!” he says, and pushes past you and out your door.

You never did find out how he got into the apartment.

  


* * *

 

It’s four AM and someone is knocking loudly at your door.

You roll out of bed and make sure all your unmentionables are covered before shuffling over to the door and peeking through the peephole.

It’s the guy in the red suit and he’s not looking so hot.

Despite your better judgement, you completely abandon all common sense and open the door.

“Dude, what?” you ask, gesturing with one hand at his completely mangled right arm. There’s something white poking out of bloody skin here and there – maybe it’s bone, but some of it looks suspiciously like teeth.

“Hey there!” he says, cheerfully, as though his arm doesn’t look like it’s been run through a wood chipper. “I was in the area and I remembered you had tongs in your kitchen.”

“I’m pretty sure tongs are not what you need right now,” you tell him.

“No no, trust me. Just the tongs.”

Then he shoves past you, just like he did the day he left your apartment, only this time he’s making a beeline for your kitchen.

“Please don’t trash my place again,” you plead.

“Sure,” he says, tracking mud into your apartment and bleeding all over everything.

He picks thirty-six distinctly non-human teeth out of his arm with the tongs you use to touch food, and then jumps out your window, leaving the teeth in your kitchen sink.

  


* * *

 

Deadpool visits you, badly wounded but usually chipper, no less than 8 times before you can get him to tell you why he keeps coming to your apartment instead of a hospital.

“Well,” he says, picking shrapnel out of his leg with a pair of tweezers, “hospitals always end up sticking you with a billion fees even with insurance, and I don’t have that kind of cash to spare. Besides, injuries will work themselves out eventually. The only problem is if shit gets stuck inside of my shit when it’s not _supposed_ to be in my shit, because then it just stays there and hurts like a bitch until I dig it out. So it’s better to get it out now before it heals over.”

He passes you a handful of bloody debris and bullets, and you stare at it, wondering if there’s a certain way you’re meant to dispose of bullets or if you can just toss them in the trash.

He stares at you. Not that you can tell that well, because of the mask, but his head is turned towards you so you assume that you’re what he’s looking at.

“How come you always let me in here?” he asks.

“You’re always hurt.”

“You’d just let in any asshole with a bullet wound?”

“No. I don’t know.” When he comes knocking at your door, you always respond in the heat of the moment, so you haven’t really thought about why you let him in. “I guess because you didn’t kill me with your sniper rifle when I caught you squatting here, so you can’t be that bad.”

“Don’t be silly,” he says, gathering up his things. “Like I’d go for a sniper rifle to shoot you at close range. I had my handgun at my hip ready for that.”

“You didn’t shoot me, though.”

He shrugs at you and leaves.

  


* * *

 

The knock sounds different this time.

When you open the door, you discover it’s because Deadpool’s lost both of his arms and he’d been smashing his head into the door as a substitute.

“Hey,” he says. “How do you feel about digging a knife out of my ass?”

Sure enough, there’s a hunting knife embedded in his left asscheek. He tells you he’d tried to get it out himself but only managed to lodge it further in there, and it won’t start healing until it’s taken out, and it’s gonna take forever to grow back an entire arm, so help a guy out here, huh?

You sit down on your couch and he plops his entire body across your legs so that you can get some kind of leverage to pull it out.

“You know, if there weren’t so much blood involved, this would be pretty kinky,” he says. “Actually, maybe the blood makes it _more_ kinky.”

You roll your eyes, grasping the knife’s hilt with one hand and bracing your other hand on his lower back, pressing down on his body while pulling the knife. When you finally yank it out (after some wiggling it back and forth), he yelps, a torrent of blood is released, going all over his ass and onto your clothes and couch.

At this point, you should just kick him out. You’ve seen enough of his injuries to know he’s going to be totally fine in a day or two.

But… you feel kind of sorry for him.

You know you shouldn’t. He’s a costumed freak and a murderer for hire, he’s told you that much. But he also seems sort of lonely. He obviously doesn’t have much of a support system of friends or family, or else he wouldn’t keep coming back here to your place.

Besides, your couch is already ruined anyway.

So you help him into a sitting position, helping him slouch a little so his wounded ass can hang off the edge of the couch, and ask if he wants some water.

“I’d rather drink some moonshine,” he says, and you shake your head and bring him water anyway.

He shies away from your hand when you reach over to pull up his mask. You give him a scathing look but don’t scold him, and the next time you move forward he lets you flip the bottom part of his mask up to reveal his mouth.

It’s the first time you’ve seen his skin up close and not totally mangled, though it looks kind of fucked up anyway. You can’t really place what’s wrong with it – there are scars, sure, but there’s a weird way that the skin bunches up and ripples and generally looks raw. Maybe an acid-related accident? You brush your fingers over his jawline and he flinches.

You’re startled back to reality by his reaction, realizing it’s pretty rude to stare and touch without asking. You hold the glass of water up to his mouth and tip it gently when he places he puckers his lips against the rim. He ends up drinking the whole glass, eerily quiet and devoid of quips the whole time.

You place the glass on your coffee table and lean back to look at him.

He scoots up on the couch, sitting upright. Evidently his butt is healing. He looks a little uncomfortable, but maybe it’s just because of the ragged stumps where his arms used to be. It looks almost like they were _torn_ off, bone popped out of the socket and flesh twisted until it broke.

He’s looking at you again.

And then he leans in – awkwardly, because he has no arms to balance himself – and presses his lips to yours.

You’re taken completely off-guard, and by the time you realize what’s happening, he’s already pulling back.

“Never kissed by an armless guy before?” He’s looking down, and it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him acting a little shy.

“I think there’s a lot of firsts going on right now,” you say, and then you lean over to kiss him again.

He licks your lips and you let him in. His tongue tastes of blood as it presses against yours, and there’s some sort of horrid bitter flavor underneath. It’s awful but you don’t really care.

You brush your thumb against his cheek, dipping it up under the mask a little, and it startles him. He gasps into your mouth but recovers quickly, pressing himself closer to you.

Too close. So close that he falls over and his face lands in your lap.

He’s quiet for a moment and then he says, “I’m pretty comfy staying down here if you are.”

You snort and help him right himself. “Maybe some other time,” you tell him.

You keep him company on the couch for a while, and offer to let him stay overnight so that he doesn’t have to wander through the city limbless and wounded.

You decide to turn in when you notice he’s growing creepy, vestigial-looking arms where his stumps are. You bring him some blankets and help him get comfortable, and then turn in yourself.

He’s gone when you wake up.

  


* * *

 

You don’t see him for two months after that.

Then one day, there’s a knock at your door around dinner time, and when you open it, Deadpool is standing there with a brown paper bag in each hand.

“I brought Mexican food,” he says. It looks like he’s grinning under the mask.

“Okay?” you say, hesitantly, giving him a confused look.

You both sort of stand there awkwardly for a moment, and then he drops one of the bags on the ground, pulls up his mask, grabs you by the waist, and kisses you full on the mouth. You pull him into your apartment he drops the other bag to push the door closed.

You don’t really think about what you’re doing. You never seem to think much when Deadpool is around. He catches you off guard, with jokes or with some ridiculous situation he’s gotten himself in. Even now, showing up at your door with takeout as though you’re a long term couple having a regular day when the reality is that he’s just some weirdo who shows up at your door every other week – it’s ridiculous. He’s ridiculous.

The atmosphere has gone from confused and awkward to frantic in only a few seconds. You shove him hungrily against a wall, running your hands over his suit and grabbing at his ass. He has his tongue in your mouth, and this time it tastes vaguely of orange soda as he tickles the roof of your mouth and makes you laugh. He pulls at your clothes, hurriedly undressing you and pushing you towards your (new) couch. You stumble backwards, landing butt-first on the cushions, completely nude.

His hands are all over your body as he kneels down in front of you. He cups your breast, nibbles at your neck, and brushes a thumb over your nipple.

“Man, this is way better with arms,” he mumbles into your skin.

“Ugh,” you groan, “stop, you’re reminding me of those freaky raptor arms you grew.”

He pulls back and brings his arms in close to his body, holding his hands like claws. “What, you’re not into dinosaurs?” He bends down and presses his face to your abdomen “Bet I can make you cum even while pretending to be a t-rex.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” you say, but you’re laughing. You push his head down and he’s already losing the bet, grabbing your hips and pulling you forward and burying his face between your thighs. It feels a little strange. His mask is still covering his nose, and you can feel the stretchy fabric against your clit as he just barely presses the tip of his tongue inside you, teasing you. It’s nice, though, so you let your eyelids slide close in bliss.

He says something else but it’s muffled by your cunt, so you just ignore it, rolling your hips towards him and grabbing the back of his head to push him closer. He makes a pleased, surprised noise, and licks a broad stripe up your pussy, flicking his tongue against your clit. You feel two cold fingers at your entrance, and you realize he’s prodding your pussy with his gloves still on. The fabric isn’t really made to be slippery, so he’s patiently coating his fingers in the wetness that’s quickly accumulating. He sucks lightly at your clit as he finally manages to slide them in, and the feeling of the material between your lips is weird, but not unpleasant.

You manage to look down at him, and as usual it’s a little hard to tell where his gaze is, but you think he’s looking at your face. The thought makes your stomach flip.

You wish you could see the rest of his face. You know his skin is fucked up, but at this point you don’t really care, and you’re not sure you ever did. You just want to see his expression without a thick layer of fabric in the way. You want to be able to see his eyes.

You tug at the mask and he freezes, but he doesn’t pull away or try to stop you. His tongue is heavy and still at your clit, his fingers deep inside you. You slowly pull off the material, and the more of his face you reveal, the more apparent it becomes that all his skin is scarred and broken.

But you don’t care. You want to see.

You pull it over his eyes and off his head entirely with one tug. You were right, he is looking at you, carefully assessing your face. His brows are almost imperceptibly knitted. You can’t help but let out a little gasp at how intense he looks.

You toss the mask to the floor somewhere and grasp the back of his head again, whining and bucking into his face. Immediately he starts moving again, sucking and licking at your clit and thrusting his fingers inside of you as fast as he can. He’s breathless against your pussy, and you can feel him huffing out hot air.

Your own breath hitches as you feel yourself getting close. You start to say his name, but you don’t know his _real_ name and it feels kind of silly moaning “Deadpool” so you cut short, unleashing a series of moans and whimpers instead. You close your eyes and you can feel yourself clenching around his fingers as he wraps his lips around your clit again. The orgasm hits you hard, and you feel light-headed.

He pulls back as you come down from your high. His fingers make a sloppy, wet noise as he withdraws them. You can hear him standing up and moving around, but you’re completely out of it, waiting bonelessly on the couch for him to make his next move.

You hear the front door open. By the time your eyes fly open and you hop off the couch, he’s already gone.


End file.
